Tag: jesus

When Thoughts Become Weights

Sometimes the struggles that weigh on us the most are not circumstances, but thoughts—thoughts that return again and again like waves against the same shoreline. I didn’t realize how much those rolling and crashing waves were shaping my spiritual life until a simple ocean photograph, a painting, and a few Bible word studies began to reveal something deeper.

What started as a quiet question about my own restless thoughts became an unexpected journey into what Scripture says about the heart, the mind, the soul, and the thoughts that move through us. And strangely enough, the crashing waves along the rocky coast of Cambria helped me see it more clearly than ever before.

About a year ago, I was delighted when Don took me to Cambria, a lovely coastal town just north of Morro Bay. We walked along the boardwalk taking photos, trying to capture the beauty of waves exploding against rocks, and powerful swirling waters.

We had only been married about a year. It was the beginning of the second chapter of our lives, now together, and God had given us a Scripture that felt like a shield of protection for this new season.

Isaiah 43:18–19 says:

“Forget about what’s happened; don’t keep going over old history. Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand-new. It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it? There it is! I’m making a road through the desert, rivers in the badlands.”

It was a perfect Scripture for our marriage.

Yet I struggled to follow those wonderful directives.

Instead of leaving the past behind, I found myself wanting to know everything about it. I sorted through hundreds of Don’s old photographs. Some stirred warm appreciation for the life that had shaped him. Others surfaced unexpected emotions. At the same time, I missed my family back in Washington and Alaska and felt the distance from everything familiar.

The past was not as easy to “forget” as Isaiah seemed to suggest.

Recently, I asked ChatGPT to transform one of our Cambria ocean photos into an oil painting. The result was beautiful. As I looked at the image, I was drawn to another passage of Scripture—Hebrews 12:1:

“Let us lay aside every weight and the sin that so easily entangles.”

The word weight caught my attention.

The weight I felt was not necessarily a visible burden. It was the constant swirl of thoughts—thoughts about our pasts, thoughts that revisited old questions, thoughts that replayed memories again and again. They tangled around my spiritual feet and made it difficult to walk freely in the joy of the Lord.

I prayed often for contentment and gratitude. Those prayers were answered—but only in small increments.

Then one day as I studied the ocean painting, something struck me. The large rocks rising from the water reminded me of the past. The waves crashing against them were like my emotions—constantly returning, colliding with what could not be changed.

The rocks were immovable.

No matter how much the water surged, the rocks remained.

That picture stirred something in me, and I decided it was time to face the issue directly. I opened my online Bible study tool, Blue Letter Bible, and began an investigation. First, I searched for the word thoughts. Then I searched for mind, soul, and heart.

Then I gathered those passages together and asked ChatGPT to help summarize the themes I was seeing. The Scriptures themselves were clear—the Bible has a great deal to say about our thoughts, our mind, our soul, and especially our heart.

What I discovered surprised me.

The Bible speaks often about our thoughts, but it rarely treats them as the deepest center of who we are. Thoughts are described as something that can wander, multiply, accuse, imagine, or be taken captive.

Thoughts are real, but they are not the deepest part of the human person.

Scripture points instead to the heart.

The heart, in biblical language, is the core of our inner life—the place where desires, choices, trust, and devotion reside. Proverbs tells us, “Guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Jesus said that what comes out of a person originates from the heart. Paul prayed that believers would have the “eyes of their heart enlightened.”

In other words, the heart is the true control center.

The mind processes understanding.
The soul expresses our living self.
Thoughts move through our awareness.

But the heart directs the whole person.

Suddenly, my Cambria painting began to make more sense.

The waves in the painting were like my thoughts—constantly moving, sometimes calm, sometimes crashing. The rocks represented the unchangeable realities of the past. But the ocean itself—the deeper body beneath the waves—reminded me of something deeper still.

The heart.

Waves may thrash on the surface, but the deeper ocean remains steady.

This realization changed something for me.

My problem was not that thoughts existed. Thoughts naturally come and go, just like waves on the sea. The problem was that I had been allowing those waves to define the condition of my heart.

Hebrews 12 suddenly sounded different.

“Lay aside every weight.”

Perhaps the weight was not the existence of thoughts themselves, but the habit of carrying them, rehearsing them, and letting them entangle my steps.

When I looked again at the Cambria painting, I saw something new. The waves were still crashing. The rocks were still there. But the scene was not chaotic after all. It was simply the nature of the ocean.

Waves move.

Rocks remain.

But beneath it all lies a vast and steady depth.

God was gently reminding me that He works at that deeper level. He does not merely quiet the waves of passing thoughts; He renews the heart itself.

And when the heart rests in Him, the waves lose their power to entangle our steps.

The past may remain like those rocks along the shoreline—real, visible, unmovable. But the grace of God creates something stronger than the waves that crash against them.

The waves may keep moving, but they no longer decide the direction of my heart.

A new heart.

And from that renewed heart flows something I had been asking God for all along:

contentment, gratitude, and the quiet joy of walking forward into the “brand-new” work He promised.

Artist’s Reflection

The Cambria ocean painting became more than a memory of a beautiful coastal walk. It turned into a visual reminder of the spiritual journey God was taking me through.

The rocks in the painting represent the past—real events and memories that cannot be removed or rewritten. They stand firm along the shoreline of our lives.

The waves represent our thoughts and emotions. They move constantly. Sometimes they are calm and gentle; other times they surge with surprising force. Left unchecked, they can repeatedly crash against the same places in our hearts.

But the ocean itself is deeper than the waves.

Then there is the sun shining across the sea and the sea reflecting its light and beauty. Hebrews 12:2 says, “Fixing our eyes on Jesus.” The Son of God, the Light of the world, the Way, the Truth, the Life! He is our focus and shines the light of His truth across all the waves of our lives so everything reflects His glory. The sun represents Him revealing Himself to us through all our circumstances, past, present. and future.

God does not promise to erase every memory or prevent every passing thought. Instead, He invites us to anchor our hearts in Him. Beneath the surface movement of thoughts, He forms a deeper, steadier life within us.

When our hearts are settled in Him, the waves lose their power to entangle our steps.

The rocks may remain, but the ocean belongs to God.

Posted on by MarJean Quiring Peters 1

Something Missing, Something Discovered

Sometimes what feels like emptiness is simply an invitation —
an invitation to notice how God restores us through one another.

Some mornings arrive with a quiet restlessness. Nothing is obviously wrong, yet something feels slightly missing.

Feeling out of sorts and a bit grumpy (not quite sure why), I pulled on my robe and slippers and headed for the kitchen. My morning greeting to my husband was less than cheerful, and even after a hot mocha, I couldn’t seem to shake my sullen mood. My prayers for help — “Change my heart, O God” — felt as though they were falling flat.

After my husband left for work, I texted a friend and asked her to pray for me.

She didn’t just send a quick reply. She sent three beautiful, uplifting songs from YouTube. Really — who can stay grumpy with a friend like that? One song led to another, and soon I was listening to the old hymn, “Does Jesus Care?”

What I could not shake, God gently shook loose — through someone who cared.

The tender words met me right where I was:

Oh yes, He cares, I know He cares;
His heart is touched with my grief.

Even though my cares that morning were not earth-shattering or heavy with sorrow, they were real. They were precious reminders that Jesus cares not only about our deepest anguish, but about our attitudes, our discouragements, and the subtle heaviness we sometimes cannot explain.

Sometimes our burdens are far heavier. Over a lifetime, each of us walks through testing fires. You know about that too, don’t you? Yet God redeems those hard seasons in a beautiful way — by allowing us to share the comfort we receive with others who are walking through their own valleys. He gives us what Scripture calls the ministry of reconciliation.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God (2 Corinthians 1:3–4).

Does Jesus care? Oh yes, He cares. Not only in life’s deepest griefs, but in small, ordinary mornings when our hearts feel slightly off balance. And often, His care comes in simple, earthly ways — through a friend, a song, a conversation.

I was reminded of that lesson again just the other day while standing at my stove.

After adding meat and vegetables to a pot of homemade bone broth, I tasted it and said to my husband, “This is still missing something, but I don’t know what it is.”

That thought lingered longer than I expected. For several days, I had felt as though something in my own life was missing — though, like the soup, I couldn’t name it. I have everything I could think of: a lovely home, a wonderful husband, children and grandchildren, meaningful Bible study with dear friends. What could possibly be lacking?

That afternoon I took a nap and dreamed the sweetest dream. I was walking along a hiking trail with my youngest son — grown now — and we were talking. I told him that the highlight of our reunion was simply our conversations and the fellowship we were sharing right then. I awoke with a lingering sense of closeness, mutual love, and oneness. I wished I could hold on to that feeling forever.

Later that same day, I had a couple of heartfelt conversations with friends. And suddenly I realized — the empty, incomplete feeling was gone.

Something missing had quietly been discovered.

What had been absent was not activity, accomplishment, or possession.

It was closeness.

Connection.

The extra dash of salt.

God created us for fellowship — with Himself and with one another. As St. Augustine wisely wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” True fulfillment is found in God alone.

And yet, the God who made us for Himself also made us for one another. We are not meant to live secluded, self-contained lives.

Jesus teaches that the greatest commandments are to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength — and to love our neighbor as ourselves. When He prays for those who believe, He asks “that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you” (John 17:20–21). The Apostle John writes, “God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all… But if we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another” (1 John 1:5,7).

Our loved ones may be around us daily. We may rub shoulders with them constantly. But it is intentional closeness — the listening, the sharing, the vulnerability of walking in the light, and the caring — that deepens the sweetness. Like salt in soup, it does not change the substance of what is there; it draws out the richness already present.

Scripture tells us that Christ’s love compels us. The One who reconciled us to Himself did not simply restore us and leave us standing alone. He draws us into His own heart and then sends us toward one another. God reconciled us to Himself through Christ, not counting our sins against us. And then — astonishingly — He entrusted to us the ministry of reconciliation.

We are called His ambassadors. God makes His appeal through His people.

That means when a friend sends a timely text, a song, a prayer, or a word of encouragement, it is not small. It is Christ caring through His body. It is the Father of compassion extending His comfort through willing hands and open hearts.

Perhaps that is what we so often discover when something feels missing.

We were not made merely to exist side by side.

We were made to share comfort, to extend grace, to bring the flavor of Christ’s love into one another’s lives.

Does Jesus care?

Oh yes, He cares.

And often, what was missing is discovered in the warmth of His love —
seasoned and passed along through us.

Artist’s Statement

Something Missing, Something Discovered was inspired by an ordinary morning that felt slightly unsettled. The simple elements in this painting — a bowl of soup, a resting spoon, a softly glowing phone, and morning light filtering through a window — represent the quiet ways God meets us in everyday life.

The steam rising from the bowl symbolizes warmth and comfort, while the light suggests His presence entering gently rather than dramatically. The subtle imperfection in the brushwork reflects the beauty of real life — not flawless, but filled with grace.

This piece is a reminder that what feels missing is often restored through connection. God’s care frequently comes through simple acts of love, passed from one person to another.

Our Prayer

Father of compassion,

When our hearts feel restless or slightly out of balance,
help us not to ignore that quiet ache.
Teach us to bring it to You.

Thank You for the ways You care for us —
not only in life’s great sorrows,
but in small, ordinary mornings.

Open our eyes to see how often
Your comfort arrives through others —
a song, a prayer, a conversation, a simple text.

Make us willing carriers of that same comfort.
Season our lives with kindness,
soften our hearts toward one another,
and teach us to walk in the light together.

When something feels missing,
lead us gently to what You are already providing.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Posted on by MarJean Quiring Peters 3

When God Writes Second Chapters

BLOSSOMS IN THE FOG OF NEW BEGINNINGS

The peach trees are beginning to bloom.

Each morning I notice a little more color against the gray—soft blossoms opening while the Central Valley fog still hangs low. Some days the clouds linger longer than expected, muting the light. And yet, there they are. Blossoms. Quiet. Persistent. Unhurried.

Living on a peach orchard has become more than scenery to me; it feels like a living parable.

When I married Don July 2024, I made a significant transition—leaving Spokane, Washington, my children and grandchildren, and a lifetime of familiar rhythms to join him here in Reedley, California. Don, on the other hand, has lived in this valley all his life. This land has been in his family since 1925, passed from his grandfather to his father, and then to him. These acres have been faithfully tended for generations.

So while the geography is still new to me, the orchard itself speaks of rootedness, endurance, and patient hope.

Both of us came into this marriage as widows and widowers after 52 years. I brought with me the ache of leaving what I loved and the courage it takes to begin again. Don brought his own transition—learning to love again after deep loss, adjusting to life with a different wife while honoring the long, faithful marriage that shaped him. Joy and sorrow have met us both here, just in different ways.

And still, the trees bloom.

Fruitfulness in a Second Chapter

Scripture never presents fruitfulness as belonging only to first chapters.

God’s Word is filled with lives that bear fruit later, quieter, and differently than expected. Ruth flourishes in a foreign land. Elizabeth rejoices after years of silence. Sarah laughs at life returning when she thought the season had passed.

Second-chapter fruitfulness does not deny loss. It grows because the ground has been broken open.

These blossoms are not fruit yet. They are promise. They do not guarantee the harvest, but they testify that life is stirring beneath the surface—even while the sky remains gray.

That feels especially true in this season of marriage. Adjustments have been real, especially in this first year. Blending two long stories takes patience, humility, and grace. And yet, God has been faithful. Sweet companionship has grown. Shared purpose has emerged.

Don finds deep fulfillment teaching Bible in his 54th year at Immanuel High School. I have found joy and strength serving alongside the women of WOW—Women of the Word, whose friendship, prayers, and encouragement have anchored me during this transition. God is making our lives fruitful in this land—not hurriedly, not perfectly, but faithfully.

A Word for Widows and Singles

I want to speak directly to those who may be reading this from a quieter, lonelier place.

If you are widowed, single, or navigating a season of transition that feels unseen, please hear this: your life is not paused, and your faithfulness is not overlooked.

Fruitfulness is not measured by marital status or visible milestones. Scripture honors seasons of steadfastness, obedience, and trust—especially when they feel hidden. The Lord sees you. He knows the weight of memories, the ache of absence, and the courage it takes to keep believing that He is not finished with your story.

You are not barren ground.

Even now, God is at work—preparing roots, forming promise, bringing life in ways that may still be tender and unseen.

Faithfulness in the Fog

Living here has taught me something simple but profound: fog does not stop growth. The trees bloom anyway.

We do not need full clarity to remain faithful. We do not need certainty to trust. We are simply called to stay rooted where God has planted us.

“Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish.” (Psalm 92:13)

Flourishing doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like obedience. Sometimes it looks like quiet blossoms opening under clouded skies.

And that, too, is a holy kind of beauty.

Scripture Reflection & Prayer

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
—Isaiah 43:18–19

Prayer:
Lord, help us trust You in the fog. Give us eyes to see the quiet work You are doing beneath the surface of our lives. Teach us to honor what has been lost without fearing what is new. Root us where You have planted us, and let our lives bear fruit in Your time. Amen.

Posted on by MarJean Quiring Peters 5

UNFADING LOVE –– Running The Race Together

Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all? You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of the dust You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of us. —Gungor

February already! The bustling holidays passed in a blur, January sped by, and I remember C. S. Lewis’s words: “We cannot fathom the passing of time because we were made for eternity.” I suspect it also has something to do with my age-related metabolism slowing down—time seems to move faster while I move slower. Either way, Valentine’s Day peeks around the corner, stirring different emotions in different people for different reasons: hope for some, loss for others, loneliness for many, puppy love for the young, and perhaps something deeper for the young at heart.

Wherever we find ourselves this February—married or single, widowed or waiting, content or quietly longing—we are all invited into the same deeper love: the unfading love of Christ that meets us exactly where we are. So this month, let’s talk about something deeper—like unfading love and running the race together.

Even in a loving marriage, life is never without its challenges. Marriage at any age is not easy, and when—by reason of more years—we become more set in our ways, it can be even more challenging. There is a bending, and sometimes even a breaking, of the will when we love someone enough to give up our own way. Submission was not easy the first time, but the second time we no longer take the relationship for granted. We come with a more willing spirit.

Still, there are moments when, despite that willing spirit, change threatens my sense of security and I feel the impulse to protect and defend both my point of view and my heart. Years ago, I learned the necessity of debriefing with someone in order to process change well. Change is hard because it always brings loss: loss of relationships, ways of life, possessions, ideas, expectations, hopes, and dreams.

So here’s the line-up: Every change brings loss. Every loss brings grief. And every grief must be processed. When we try to bury grief, shut it up, shame it, guilt it, or replace it with distractions, we discover it does not stay buried. Instead, it comes out sideways—often through the very things we use to numb ourselves. Grief cannot be turned on and off like a water spigot. It may remain contained for a while, but eventually pressure builds, and what is unprocessed leaks into other areas of life.

But doesn’t time heal all wounds? Time alone does not heal emotional pain. It creates space—but healing requires intention. It requires naming loss, processing emotions, finding meaning, and sometimes seeking help. Healing is not passive.

Recently, I came across old photos of us—still young and beautiful. They stirred those feelings of loss again, but I knew where to go. I cast my cares on Jesus. I met Him in His Word and through prayer journaling. In my mind, Jesus looked at those photos with me. I did not turn away. I looked straight into the ache of what I missed.

Then I turned the page of my mental photo album and saw us now reflected in the mirror: older, slower, stiffer, marked by time.

And I prayed, Oh Lord, give me grace—to accept the reality of aging in a fallen world. Help me look beyond this season to the eternal youth and beauty that await us with You.

In the quiet of the night, truth pushes back the lies of hopelessness. God often brings a song, a phrase, a reminder that He specializes in making beauty from brokenness and life from what seems worn out. As Gungor writes, “Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all?” What seems impossible, faith brings to light through the grace, goodness, and faithfulness of our God.

Even out of aging, aching bodies, He is still able to bring something good. My true life is not—nor ever was—found in youth or physical beauty. It is found only in the life of Jesus, poured out for me, into me, and through me to others. That is how God makes something beautiful out of dust—out of this fragile, aging clay pot of a life.

The apostle Paul writes:

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us (2 Cor. 4:6–7).

The glory of God in Christ is the treasure. We are the clay jars—fragile, ordinary, and easily cracked—so that it is unmistakably God’s power at work, not ours. Glory carried by weakness. Light housed in frailty. Christ displayed through us.

Hebrews reminds us that we do not run this race alone:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses… let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus (Heb. 12:1–2).

Because others have gone before me—and now cheer me on—I pray for God’s strength to lay aside what hinders me: old comparisons, lingering jealousy, quiet resentments. I ask for grace to run with perseverance the race God has chosen for me, fixing my eyes not on what once was, but on Jesus. He endured the cross for joy—joy in redeeming clay pots like me.

And so I run—not young, not beautiful by the world’s standards—but deeply loved, still becoming, and carried by a glory that does not fade.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away,
our inner self is being renewed day by day.
For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us
an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.
—2 Corinthians 4:16–17

This winter forest is a my painting of unfading love. The season is bare and cold, yet the light remains—shaped not by what is added, but by what endures. The paired footprints move forward together, not in haste, but in faithfulness, marking a shared direction through the long path. Love like this is not loud or fleeting; it keeps walking, through winter, toward the light.

Posted on by MarJean Quiring Peters 0

New Year Thoughts on Light and Salt

AS WE STEP INTO THE NEW YEAR, many of us are thinking about rest, renewal, and what truly guides us through the darkness. A sleepless night—and a bedroom full of glowing gadgets—became an unexpected reminder of Jesus’ call to be light in a dark world. This reflection invites us to begin the year not by striving harder, but by abiding deeper, allowing His light to shine through us in quiet, faithful ways.

When a Little Light Keeps You Awake

I like a dark room in order to sleep—and stay asleep. Actually, let’s be honest—I need a dark room. Don, ever the practical one, says, “Just close your eyes.” That’s adorable. If it were that simple, the sleep industry would collapse overnight.

As a new year begins, I’ve been thinking about rest—real rest. Not just sleep, but soul rest. And I didn’t expect the Lord to use my bedroom to get my attention, but here we are.

When we finally turn off the ceiling light and bedside lamps, it’s dark for maybe three seconds before the glow show begins. The bedside clock shines like a spotlight. The smoke detector blinks as if to say, “Still awake?” The carbon monoxide detector joins in. Blue lights from air purifiers glow on both sides of the room, the motion detector’s red eye keeps watch, and even the microwave shines from the corner (for heating pads… because, well, life).

Add in my phone lighting up with notifications, my Fitbit flashing when I move, Don’s C-Pap machine with its friendly yellow beacon, and chargers for everything plugged into a power strip that twinkles like Christmas—and sleep suddenly feels optional.

I’ve tried covering lights. I’ve tried moving things. I’ve even tried wearing red goggles to block blue light when I prayer journal at night. Between the goggles and my C-Pap, I’m quite a sight—definitely not romantic. Don, on the other hand, prefers a little light so he won’t bump into things if he gets up at night. And honestly, I understand.

Years ago, when I was single, the power went out after I got up at night, and I couldn’t find the bed in the pitch black. Completely disoriented, I felt my way through the darkness like a confused bat. Thankfully, I didn’t get hurt. Don would be another story.

Light in the Darkness

All this nighttime illumination has followed me right into the new year—and it’s reminded me of something Jesus said:
“You are the light of the world.”

That stopped me.

If a tiny charger light can keep me awake, what might even a small reflection of Jesus’ light do in a spiritually dark world? His light in us isn’t meant to decorate our lives—it’s meant to flow through them. It’s His presence, quietly but powerfully at work.

As a new year begins, many are tired. Many are confused. Many are searching for solid ground. We see it everywhere—disorientation, discouragement, hearts stumbling in the dark.

And yet—even the faintest glow of Christ’s truth shining through a willing heart can awaken something in another soul. It can stir hope. It can point the way home. People may trip over the truth at first—but if the light keeps shining, some will eventually see that the very thing they stumbled over is the only thing that can save them.

Salt, Light, and the Work of the Heart

It’s no accident that Jesus talks about salt and light right after the Beatitudes. The order matters.

Before He calls us “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world,” He blesses the heart attitudes that reflect His own life within us. The Beatitudes aren’t goals to strive for in the new year; they’re evidence of what Jesus produces when we abide in Him.

Poverty of spirit. Mourning over sin. Meekness. Hunger for righteousness. Mercy. Purity of heart. Peacemaking. These aren’t boxes to check—they’re fruit that grows when Christ is at work in us.

Only then does His influence naturally flow through us.
Salt preserves and creates thirst.
Light reveals, guides, and gently exposes.

Jesus isn’t asking us to try harder this year. He’s inviting us to stay closer.

Awake on Purpose

So maybe my glow-in-the-dark bedroom is a small parable for January.

The world is full of little lights that keep us awake physically. But Jesus calls us to be a light that keeps people awake spiritually—to shine just enough for hearts to notice Him.

And maybe, when I wake in the night surrounded by all those blinking gadgets, I can quietly pray,
“Okay, Lord—I see the lesson. You’ve made me light-sensitive for a reason.”

May this new year find us resting in Him, walking closely with Him, and shining—not because we’re trying to—but because His light lives in us.


“Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD rises upon you.”
—Isaiah 60:1

Posted on by MarJean Quiring Peters 2